


Here Comes The Sun

by Random_Nexus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not an Unhappy Ending, Prompt Fic, Sherlock Kink Meme - Tumblr, Sick Character, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 04:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10586670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: Pretty much what it says on the tin - Molly's got the flu really bad and Sherlock takes care of her.Written for the Prompt:  "Sherlock Kink Meme on Tumblr - Prompt #172: BBC, Molly/Anyone - hurt/comfort, Molly has the flu (or worse, if you like)"





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I ever think I can deliberately write something short, srsly, because the Muse will have what she wants. This was supposed to be a little ficlet and here we are at 3.3k. * _sigh/shrug_ * Hope some of you like it. :)

Molly drifted awake to the sound of her mobile’s muffled ringing from… somewhere. She blinked open gummy eyes and had just a moment of confusion as to why she was sleeping on the sofa instead of her bed, let alone why she felt so blurry and strange.

Oh, right. Flu. She’d gone home early the other night due to feeling hot and headachy for most of her shift. Doctor Struthers had stopped in to ask her something and, after taking one long look at her, urged Molly to go home on his authority. Since she’d felt utterly shite, Molly hadn’t even argued. That was… day before yesterday? No… wait… what day was it?

The sound of her phone’s ringtone, a bubbly snippet of musical tones that always made her think of some kind of clockwork music box, went on and on while Molly struggled through the thick fog in her head to remember where she’d left her phone. Had she left it on the kitchen worktop when she’d been shuffling around trying to make herself some toast? Or was it still in her bag by the front door?

An ascending meow-to-yowl came from somewhere else in the flat, approaching and increasing in volume along with the quick thumps that presaged Toby’s solid body landing on the arm of the sofa near Molly’s head. He rubbed his head against Molly’s forehead, thunking his solid little feline skull almost painfully into hers.

“Easy, sweetie,” Molly mumbled, lifting an arm that weighed several tonnes to rub her knuckles against his cheek. Toby was purring incredibly loudly and vocalising in the way that told her he was hungry and getting miffed that no food had been offered. “Mummy’s sick, Toby.” Her voice wasn’t even a mumble that time, hoarse and whispery, and she wondered if maybe she was sicker than she’d thought. Toby padded up the sofa’s arm and along the back, ‘talking’ at her in little mumbling yowls that would normally have her plucking him up and cuddling him in concern or apology—usually after she’d worked a long shift and he’d eaten all his dry food—because of course Toby was spoiled.

Some time passed, during which Molly drifted off into some sort of daydream where she was trying to find Toby’s tinned food in the cupboard and kept pulling out lab reports and files that should have been back in the morgue’s steel cabinets, not in Molly’s kitchen. Her phone kept chirping and pinging to tell her she had texts and voicemails—two different alert sounds—and then rang for a while again. Molly kept plucking at her dressing gown, vaguely wondering if she might have somehow been locked in a sauna. How could that have happened, though?

A while later, her bladder painfully full, Molly rolled off the sofa to stumble unevenly to the loo, pushing and tugging weakly at her dressing gown along the way. Once she’d done her business, she splashed cold water on her face until she felt less like she was going to possibly burst into flames. While she was unsuccessfully wrestling the hand towel back in the direction of its usual hook next to the sink, Molly heard her mobile go off amazingly close by.

It was on the floor by her feet. So, _that’s_ where it had been hiding. She must have dropped it there at… some time or other. She almost fell over when she bent down to pick it up, but caught herself on the wall. Outside the bathroom, Toby was yowling and grumbling in his feline version of shouting. Probably hungry, poor lamb. Ugh, food. Molly grimaced in disgust at the very notion.

“H’llo?” she rasped—oh, but her throat hurt horribly!—into the thing once she’d poked and stroked at the screen until managing to answer the call.

“Molly, I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday,” came a deep voice she recognised. Of course she recognised it. Him.

“’m not at work,” she told him a bit crossly.

“Obviously. Where have you been?” How dare he sound cross, too?

“Here, ‘f course. Silly quesshun.” Rolling her eyes, teetering a bit when it made her dizzy, Molly snorted at Sherlock’s ridiculousness and put the phone down.

Faintly, Molly heard Sherlock’s voice, tinnily coming from the mobile’s speaker. “Molly? What’s wrong with your voice? Molly, why is Toby making such a racket?”

“Wish he’d stop, though,” Molly commented as she left. Maybe Sherlock could figure it out, she hadn’t the energy, honestly, and wanted to lie back down. He was so clever, let him deal with Toby’s incessant squawling. Poor fuzzy baby. Toby, not Sherlock. Molly tittered at the idea of Sherlock’s face if she’d dared to call him a ‘fuzzy baby’ to his face. Toby might be jealous, come to think of it. He didn’t mind Sherlock, really, the few times Sherlock had been to her flat, but Sherlock avoided the cat as if he were allergic. “But I know the truth,” Molly sing-songed on her way back to… where had she been going?

The mobile’s noises faded behind her as she wandered into the lounge and flopped onto the sofa again, curling into a ball and sighing with relief. So much cooler now, and softer, too. Toby hopped up next to her and started butting at her legs, being noisy and pushy, but Molly drifted away before she could tell him to stop.

“Molly? Molly, can you hear me?” Sherlock’s voice grew louder once Molly was on her back, weakly batting at the hand gripping her arm. A wonderfully cool something touched her cheek, then the other and, after that, her forehead. She made a soft, pleased sound.

“Oh, tha’s lovely.” She tried to bring his hand back to her face, missing the first time, then plopping his fingers against her cheek with a little smack. “So cool.”

“John? Yes, she’s here, but she’s burning up with fever. I’ll get her to the bedroom.” Sherlock sounded nearby, but he was obviously somewhere else, talking to John. Who were they discussing? Who was ‘her’? Rosie?

“Oh, is Rosie sick?” Molly asked, worried for John’s sweet little daughter. Poor luv, without her mum and nearly lost her dad and godfather last year. “I can look after her once I’ve had a bit of a lie down.”

“Let’s see how you feel after that lie down,” Sherlock replied gently. She’d not heard him speak so gently since he’d shown up at her door—well, he had to, she’d been ignoring his calls—to explain why he’d called her out of nowhere, asking her to say she loved him. If only he’d ever wanted to speak that way to her without hurting her first.

“It’s not fair,” Molly said, barely loud enough to qualify as speaking. Maybe she hadn’t said it out loud?

“I know. It isn’t.” Sherlock sounded sympathetic. “No, you should just stay put, John. If she’s got a bug, we don’t want you bringing it home to Rosie. Just walk me through what to do, John,” he added from above Molly as she floated into the air. Oh, no, he was picking her up, holding her close and walking somewhere with her.

John’s voice was barely audible, somewhere above Molly, too, and he sounded frustrated if a little in-and-outish, some of his words fading out entirely. “You’re right, I suppose, but… warm and hydrated… knows how long she’s been… call me back, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock murmured as Molly opened her heavy, heavy eyelids to look up at the underside of his chin and jaw, stretching away from the white collar of his shirt.

“Do you remember how long you’ve been sick, Molly?” Sherlock asked as he lowered her to something much softer than the sofa. Oh! Her bed! How comforting. She really liked her bed, and the sheets were so cool.

“Days and days,” she replied, her head sinking deep into her pillow. “Doctor Struthers said to go home early.”

“Right. You stay here, then, and I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Molly said sweetly, pleased to be in her own cool, soft bed and pleased that Sherlock wasn’t leaving. “I’ll wait here,” she confirmed, turning into her pillow and dreaming of clouds and meringues.

~~~

The world was cold and then hot, blurry and full of strange noises and people badgering Molly every other minute, it seemed. Drink this, where’s that, and of course she knew what Toby was meant to eat, and Sherlock’s hands being so comfortingly cool on her cheeks. So, so lovely, really they were. She kept drawing them to her face every time she caught them, even though Sherlock tutted at her to drink or swallow this or that. She just wanted those long, cool fingers against her hot skin.

Then she was achy and her throat hurt so much, and hot, hot, hot… she just couldn’t stay still until cool fingers rested against her face and Sherlock’s deep voice was crooning so softly. “Here comes the sun… hm-m-hm-m… here comes the sun, and I say… it’s all right…”

Molly tried to hum along—it was her favourite song when she was little, after all—but it hurt her throat to try and she had to stop. Mum used to sing it to her when she was sick. How did he know?

Smiling, tucking Sherlock’s lovely, cool hand under her cheek, Molly snuggled down into her soft bed and drifted along to Sherlock’s voice, picking up the tune again after a little sound that might have been a quiet chuckle. How nice. Molly pictured round, golden suns with Sherlock’s nose and lips, tilting back and forth in a pretty blue sky while singing to her. “Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter… little darling, it feels like years since it’s been here…”

“Here comes the sun,” Molly whisper-sang, and Sherlock’s thumb caressed her chin, up to her cheek, and back.

“Here comes the sun, and I say… it’s all right…”

Molly slept, falling away to the sound of Sherlock’s voice and feeling comforted, at least, if not completely comfortable. The Sherlock-sun kept singing in her dream sky, smiling and smiling at her the way Sherlock rarely did. But he had done, now and then, for her. Especially after she forgave him for what his insane sister had made him do, that call, making her say those painfully true words. It was horrible for him, too, she’d realised, because he really did care about Molly, but not the way she used to want him to do. Still, he truly did care, and that was important, beyond dreams or fantasies.

Music wandered throughout her fuzzy dreams, as well as voices and Toby’s purr somewhere nearby. Oh, good, no more yowling.

~~~

_“…checked that and it’s still barely a point above normal the last four and a half hours. Yes. Broth and some milky tea last night, but she still wasn’t fully conscious. I’m going to try some Lemsip in a little while.”_

Molly listened to Sherlock’s voice, just distant enough that he was probably in the next room, but the door must be open, because she could still hear him fairly well. Why was Sherlock… oh… right. She hazily remembered her bizarre state of mind, wondering how long it had been since she’d first come home feeling ill. How long had it been since Sherlock had arrived?

Had he really sung to her? Molly’s cheeks grew hot, though not with fever, only embarrassment at having been seen by _Sherlock_ while no doubt a frumpy mess in her favourite flannel jimjams and her ratty old dressing gown—which she’d had since college—and which she found draped over the foot of her bed when she finally cracked her eyes open and looked around the room. Her eyes were crusty and didn’t want to focus at first, but she rubbed at them till they were clearer. Though it was a little bit of an effort to lift her arm, it wasn’t as horrible as she sort of remembered it being… whenever that had been. Lord, but she felt weak and about half-melted into the bed.

Sherlock’s voice grew louder and, for some reason she didn’t at all explore, Molly closed her eyes as if she were still sleeping. His voice grew softer again and she heard the scuff of his foot on the thicker carpet in her bedroom—he must’ve been paused in the doorway, no doubt still speaking on the phone to someone. Perhaps John? “I think the worst is over, quite honestly. I assure you, Mrs. Hooper, that John Watson is an excellent doctor and I’ve been consulting with him since I came to check on Molly.”

Oh! He was talking with Molly’s mum. Well, that must’ve been how he knew about that song, then.

“I’ll have her ring you as soon as she’s awake and able to talk. Of course, Mrs. Hooper, that’s what friends do.” As Sherlock spoke those words, Molly couldn’t keep her eyes closed, wanting to see the expression that went with his amazingly gentle tone. He was looking right at her—of course he’d noticed she was awake—and continued to speak into his mobile. “She’s been a very good friend and it’s no hardship at all for me to repay the many kindnesses she has extended to me over the years. Yes. I expect you’ll hear from her later today. Goodbye.” He thumbed the phone, obviously disconnecting the call, and tucked it into his trouser pocket. “Well, hello at last, Molly.”

Molly’s lips pulled askew and she said, “H’llo,” with a hoarse, croaking voice she hardly recognised. She winced a little at the discomfort.

“It’s about time,” he replied, going to the bedside table and pouring some water into a glass—she hadn’t noticed the pitcher sitting there, let alone the glass—and he sat on the edge of her bed to extend the glass. “You were worrying your mother and John.”

Drinking the cool water gratefully, Molly’s hand shook a little when she held the half-emptied glass out for Sherlock to take back. Her voice was a little less rough after that welcome moisture. “Is John here, too?”

“No, he’s been having me act as doctor-by-proxy,” Sherlock replied with a little quirk of an almost-smile. “We were worried about him bringing whatever you had home to Rosie. That’s also why I’ve stayed—as well as looking after you, of course—but to avoid doing the same.”

Nodding, Molly vaguely recalled hearing something about that from Sherlock… or was it John? Oh, he must’ve been talking to John on his phone and Molly had been very out of it. “I think I remember hearing you talking about that… sort of.” She rubbed at her face, arm still so very heavy. “How long has it been?”

“Three days since I came over to check on you; counting today,” Sherlock told her in a low, kind tone. “I spoke to Doctor Struthers and it seems you’d already been sick for over a day by then. John and I had just discussed my taking you to hospital when your fever broke, not an hour later.”

“Maybe I heard you,” Molly said with weak humour. “I might work in one, but I hate being a patient in one.”

Sherlock gave an agreeing tilt of his head, as if to say he knew that already, but he had been much better about ‘showing off’ or being a know-it-all in the last few years. “Your mother kept calling your phone, so I finally answered it and spoke with her. She wanted to come down to take care of you, but I told her to wait a bit longer, until we knew more.”

“She can’t afford the time off work since her assistant quit to get married,” Molly said with a nod.

Inclining his head as if both agreeing and acknowledging that he’d probably suspected as much without her saying, Sherlock then offered almost shyly, “When the fever was at its worst and you kept trying to get up, mumbling about a sauna… well, your mother called and I asked her for ideas other than simply holding you down, which was distressing you, too, but you couldn’t seem to hear me. She told me about singing to you when you’d been sick as a child.”

Smiling, Molly whisper-rasped, “I heard you singing.”

He smiled in response, nodding. “You tried to sing along at one point.”

“That was… so sweet of you.” Clearing her throat at the harshness of her voice, she gestured at the glass. “Would you…?”

Handing her the glass, Sherlock reached up to lay the back of his hand against her forehead, then—after she’d stopped drinking—her cheek. Taking back the now-empty glass with the other hand he nodded in satisfaction. “Good; hydration will help you feel better more quickly.”

“Sherlock…” Clearing her throat yet again, a bit embarrassed, but too weak to get very worked up about it just yet, Molly reached out and caught his hand as he was withdrawing it. “Thank you.” He shook his head, looking down at where she was holding his hand. “No, really, I… things have been… awkward… for us since all that trouble with—well, you know.” She shook her head, seeing his wince and knowing he didn’t really want to talk about what had happened with his mad sister, either. “You’re a good friend, too, Sherlock,” she finally said. Then, because she couldn’t help feeling self-conscious, knowing she must look a fright, Molly grimaced a little at his bony knuckles instead of looking up at his face. “It’s… I’m sorry for being such a mess—”

“No,” he interrupted gently, turning his hand to grip hers and squeeze a little. “You’ve nothing to apologise for. It’s just transport, Molly. Nothing to be ashamed of. I’m just happy to have been able to help you. It’s the least I can do,” he replied quietly, his thumb rubbing lightly over the back of her hand.

Molly used his grip to pull his hand to her lips and kissed the joint where his thumb joined his hand, and then squeezed in return before relaxing so he could take his hand back if he liked. He had such big hands, she thought, easily half again larger than hers. “We’re okay, Sherlock. I forgave you.” Clearing her throat again, wincing, she whispered, “Let’s just leave all that behind us, okay?”

“Okay,” he said with a single dip of his chin. He then shifted to a slightly brisker tone, releasing her hand after one more little sweep of his thumb over the back of it. “Lemsip?”

Smiling, Molly nodded. “Please.” Her voice broke partway through and she rolled her eyes while Sherlock’s lips pulled into a brief smirk.

Sherlock rose to his feet, but leant down to drop a quick, almost tender kiss to Molly’s forehead. “Back shortly,” he said as he straightened, voice and smile gentle.

Molly felt a warm swirl of surprised affection, smiling at Sherlock in return before he turned and went to make her some Lemsip.

Lying there and drifting a bit, her throat still uncomfortable, but the rest of her mostly just heavily sunk into her bed, Molly wondered about this unexpected kindness. Was there more to it than simple friendship? Should she even think such thoughts, all things considered? Still, he had stayed with her, took care of her, and even got advice from her mother on how to soothe her when she was feverish. Thinking of his gentle voice and the touch of his hand… she didn’t want to work herself up to pointless expectations, but what if things _had_ changed?

In the kitchen, she could barely hear him over the faint whoosh of the kettle boiling, humming ‘Here Comes The Sun’ in his lovely, deep voice. Molly sighed and closed her eyes. She was confident that her and Sherlock’s friendship hadn’t been lost, if nothing else, and as for the rest? She would wait and see.


End file.
